Well, strange as it may seem, I actually tried the Celine Dion test with Josh. His face tightened to the point he looked like a woman who overdosed on Botox. Or like any child served liver and Brussels sprouts for dinner. So there’s that. Though he did politely offer to drive me to a concert and wait in the car. You should have seen the look of relief on his face when I told him I was kidding. I did get him to admit he didn’t care for some things I liked, such as science fiction. But other than the baseball thing, no red flags. The guy was probably thinking I’d be playing that annoying theme from Titanic every time he came to visit me.

Anyway, the relationship seems to be moving along nicely, though very slowly, which is something my friends seem to think is good for me. Josh does get called out of town quite often, as he’s traveling for the next two weeks, so everything is on the back burner for now.

And to be honest, slow is fine right now since I’m very intrigued by Speechless Guy and want to keep my options open. My sister keeps telling me I’m greedy. So sue me.

As for Josh, he stops by the deli whenever he’s doing something on the remodeling job across the street. Still have no idea who bought the place or what kind of business is going in there, but things seem to be taking shape from what I can see, at least on the first floor. They power-washed the brick on the outside of the building and brought the exterior back to its original classic look. There’s even a cornerstone that was covered in grime that now reveals the date the place was built, 1917. It’ll be nice to have the one abandoned eyesore in the neighborhood turned into something attractive and there’s a definite buzz in the gossip network speculating about what’s going in there. We’ll find out eventually.

It’s a nasty, raw October day, with steady drizzle and a chill that goes right to the bone. I cannot seem to get warm. Coffee sales are way up today, and at three o’clock I’m putting on another pot. What the hell, even if we don’t get any more customers I might drink the whole thing myself.

The door opens, letting in a blast of chilly air along with the sounds of a jackhammer from across the street. I finish pouring the water into the pot and turn just as a man places his umbrella next to the door and takes off his hat.

Speechless Guy.

To be honest, I’d kinda forgotten about him since it’s been three weeks and four days since he was last here.

(Fine, you got me, I haven’t forgotten about him. But he was on the back burner. I have a cluttered mental stove.)

I cannot stop my face from lighting up as I head to the counter. “Welcome back. I was wondering if we’d ever see you again.”

“Nice to see you as well. I’ve been traveling, picking up things for my new business.”

“Ah. I thought maybe you didn’t care for that Reuben.”

“On the contrary, it was excellent. But again, I didn’t have room for dessert.”

“I just put on some coffee... share a cup with me? I’m due for my break.” (Yeah, right.)

“That would be lovely considering the chill today. Cream and sugar please. And I still haven’t tried one of your pastries.” He leans down, looks at the items in the bakery case and furrows his brow. Then points at one on the top row. “What is that flaky thing with the unpronounceable name?”

I can’t help but laugh, as he’s selected the one pastry with the spelling that totally throws non-Italians. Sfogliatella. “It’s basically pronounced spool-ya-tell.”

“How do you get spool-ya-tell from that?”

“Beats me, but that’s what we call ‘em.”

“Well, whatever it’s called, it looks delicious. I’ll have one of those.”

“Excellent choice. Have a seat and I’ll bring everything over.”

“Lovely. Thank you, Miss.”

I quickly fix two cups of coffee, grab the pastry and head over to the corner where he’s busy taking off his raincoat. I glare at the front door along the way, throwing the Sicilian Evil Eye curse in that direction so any tour buses that are considering stopping here will go someplace else. He gives me a warm smile as I put everything on the table and sit down with him. “Well, this is the third time we’ve met but I never did get your name.”

He sips his coffee and nods. “Yes, of course. How forgetful of me. I’m Beckett. Beckett Dash.”

More like Beckett Dashing. “A.J. Scaramucci.”

“So, this fine establishment is yours.”

“I own it with my siblings. It was started by my grandparents.” I point at the pastry. “Pull it apart and give it a try. Old family recipe.”

He peels off a few layers and pops it in his mouth. “Oh, that’s brilliant.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, sorry. Where I come from good things are lovely, great things are brilliant. I should have just said it’s delicious.”

“Glad you like it. Are you just here on business?”

He dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Yes. I’m opening a business.” He points across the street. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the building that’s being remodeled.”

My eyes widen. Oh yeah, he’s gonna be my neighbor! “Ah, so you’re the mystery owner everyone has been wondering about.”

“Trust me, I’m not very mysterious.”

“And I understand you’re turning the second floor into an apartment.” He furrows his brow as if wondering how I know that. “The guys working on the building eat here every day, so I’ve been getting the story on the place.”

“Ah. Yes, I’ll be living there. I thought it would be convenient since commuting is such an ordeal in New York and living inside the business also makes financial sense. No point paying an outrageous amount of rent when there’s so much space over there.”

I point at the ceiling. “Small world. I live upstairs.”

“How about that.”

“It’s great to see that old building come back to life. I’ve hated looking at it for years, it was so rundown and dirty. So what sort of business are you putting in there?”

He takes another bite and a sip of coffee, then dabs his mouth with a napkin again. “Tea and scones.”

I have no idea what he means. “Excuse me?”

“As you have probably gathered, I’m from the UK. I’ve spent quite a bit of time here in the states for the past ten years, and every time I’m here I miss a good cup of tea. And I’ve yet to find a decent scone. You Yanks make great coffee, but we’re the experts on tea. After all, you did throw it in Boston Harbor, so you obviously don’t know what to do with it.” He shoots me a grin.

“You’re gonna sell tea? That’s it?”

“Yes. But the big attraction will be the scones.”

“Forgive me, but what’s a scone?”

“It’s sort of a little cake topped with jam and clotted cream. It looks like a biscuit. Quite tasty. Goes wonderfully with tea. Tea and scones are a tradition in the UK. Perfect in the afternoon. And I’m thinking people here might enjoy that after dinner as well.”

Okay, while I don’t mind a little competition in the dessert department, I worry that this poor guy is throwing all his money away selling stuff no one’s ever heard of. And tea? I don’t know anyone around here who’s a tea drinker. “If you’ve been coming here ten years, surely you know that New York is pretty much a coffee town.”

“I realize that. And I wouldn’t dream of trying to compete with you.” He takes another sip of coffee. “Besides, I couldn’t make anything this good. But I’ve done my research and I believe the market craves a good cup of tea. Do you sell it?”

“To be honest, no one’s ever asked for a cup in all the years I’ve worked here. There’s probably a dust covered box of tea bags in the back room somewhere.”

“Ah, splendid. Then I will not be stealing any of your tea business.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Considering my tea business is non-existent, you can have it all. Well, I wish you the best of luck. Those scone things do sound interesting.”

“Tell you what... they just installed the oven today and I was going to make a test batch soon. Perhaps you’d like to come by and try one. Maybe bring a few friends so that I can get some feedback. Do you drink tea at all?”

“Just when I’ve got a sore throat. And occasionally I drink iced tea in the summer.”

“Well, Miss Scaramucci, you’re in for a treat. I’m warning you, British tea can be addictive. So are scones. We’ll have many flavors of tea and different varieties of scones. Along with homemade jam.”

He calls me Miss Scaramucci and my last name just rolls off his tongue.

“I’m a coffee girl but I’ll give it a shot. You make it sound much more interesting. So, have you always been in the food business?”

“I put myself through school working in bakeries, so I’m quite familiar with the amount of hard work and long hours involved. But I’ve been working the past ten years for the British Ambassador to the United States. I’d decided I’ve had enough of politics and have been saving my money to open a business. The location across the street was too good to pass up and the city officials were thrilled someone wanted to remodel the place. They basically gave me the key to the building with the promise I’d actually open a business. Besides, I was getting tired of going back and forth across the pond every month. I love my home country but I’ve grown quite fond of America and want to share the best of Great Britain.” He takes the last bite of the pastry. “After all, you’re sharing the best of your country with me.”

“You wanna try another pastry?”

“As you would say, bring it on.”

***

AN HOUR LATER, THERE’S some serious chemistry with this guy and it’s more than the accent. While he’s incredibly charming and polite, he seems to have a life force that’s infectious. How anyone can get so excited about tea is beyond me, but it’s obvious he’s passionate about making his new business a success. He seems to be passionate about everything, from books to science fiction (yay!) to experiencing new things in this country.

Makes me wonder if he’s passionate, period.

And there’s his incredible eye contact. But it’s more than just listening to me and actually paying attention, it’s a look with those deep olive greens that seems to go right into my soul and give it a hug.

Just like the look Gypsy gives me with her green eyes.

Even though I barely know the guy.

Does he have... wait for it... cat values?

He finishes the second pastry, dabs his mouth with a napkin and lays it on the table. “I’m afraid I’ve spoiled my dinner with two of your pastries, but it was worth it.”

“Glad you enjoyed them. And I’m excited to have you as a neighbor. I think you’ll love Staten Island and the people who live around here are really nice. It’s one of those neighborhoods that hasn’t changed much over the years.”

“I’ve already felt so welcomed. People have been very friendly here. I’m quite familiar with Manhattan but I’m having to learn my way around Staten Island. I think I need a good tour guide.” He leans forward a bit. “Miss Scaramucci, I hope I’m not being too forward since we barely know each other, but, I must say... I find you enchanting.”

My eyes widen a bit. “I don’t think anyone’s ever referred to me that way before. Especially with my accent.”

“It is endearing as well.”

I point at my face. “This? Fuhgeddaboudit!”

He laughs a bit. “During my years in New York I have grown to appreciate the colloquialisms. I have enjoyed our conversation today immensely and feel that we are... how do you say it? On the same page.”

“Yeah, we got a lotta stuff in common.”

“That said, and again, I hope I’m not being too forward, I should enjoy escorting you to dinner some evening. Though I certainly understand if a woman like you is already spoken for. Of course, if you’re not attached and have no desire to dine with me, it would be a nice way to help me save face by saying you’re someone’s significant other.”

There’s that woman like me thing again.

Josh, get off my shoulder. We’ve only had a few dates. Be gone, Catholic guilt!

“I’d enjoy that a great deal. But only on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“While I enjoy hearing you say my last name with that beautiful accent, you can call me A.J.”

“Certainly. What do the initials stand for?”

I shake my head. “Oh no. Trust me, it’s awful. You’ll have to know me a long time before I tell you. Or get me really, really drunk.”

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”

“It’s why I use my initials. Even my family doesn’t call me by my real name.”

“Very well, it shall remain a mystery. But your initials do convey a certain... shall we say... spunk.”

“I’ve got no shortage of that in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“That quality is endearing as well.” He gets up from the table and I do the same. “As for testing out my scones, how about Saturday afternoon? Two-thirty is a good time for afternoon tea.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Bring some friends. And may I pick you up at seven for dinner on Friday? I’m an usher in a wedding on Saturday night.”

“That would be great. Entrance to my apartment is around the corner. Just hit the buzzer.”

“Excellent, I’ll look forward to it.” He pays for the pastries even though I try to stop him, puts on his coat, heads for the door, grabs his umbrella and gives me a wave as he leaves and heads across the street, hopping across the puddles with a spring in his step.

And here I am in my khakis and oxford shirt, enchanting a guy.

Yeah, I’m enchantin’. You gotta problem wit that, or what?

***

GYPSY HATES THE COLD as much as I do, and in her case, once the temperatures drop she has no desire to go out on the screened porch. Of course every day she has to check just in case it might be warm enough, so she pokes her nose through the pet door for about five seconds, then dashes away.

And, like humans, she gets cabin fever. Sure, she’ll hang out on the window shelf I put up and watch cat TV through the glass (bird feeder), but it’s not the same as the fresh air and the idea that she’s somehow an outdoor kitty. But the window seat and sun squares on the carpet aren’t enough to soothe her internal wild beast. Without the screened porch to occupy her attention, she hates that I’m not home.

And when she gets cabin fever, she gets more demanding.

She’s kinda like that Glenn Close character in Fatal Attraction, flicking the light bulb on and off while telling Michael Douglas she won’t be ignored. Thankfully, there are no dead rabbits involved when Gypsy wants attention. As thirty seconds ago she made her point by running across the computer keyboard while I was trying to find information about scones. Instead, her paws hit just the right keys to transfer me to a transvestite porn site (it will take a while for me to get the image of a three hundred pound man in Capri pants out of my head.) That photo made me yank the plug out of the wall.

“Fine, you win. Waddaya want, playtime or treats?”

She paws at the air, which I know means she’s dying to stalk something. So I pull out the wand with the catnip green butterfly at the end and make her chase it all over the apartment. After a few minutes I let her catch it. She lays on her back and starts attacking it, and within thirty seconds she’s drunk off the catnip and staring at me like she’s been off on a weekend bender.

I plug the computer back in. “Now, before I was so rudely interrupted... I was trying to find out about scones. And if anyone in New York sells these things.” The computer screen clears and I head back to the New York food review site that is often brutally honest, type “scones” in the search box and wait.

Six bakeries pop up on the list, none in Staten Island, all with ratings of three stars or less, so I click on the first one.

“After visiting the UK and getting hooked on scones, I was hoping to find a decent one in Manhattan. Sadly, the ones at this bakery should be sent to the New York Rangers to be used as hockey pucks.”

“The Brits aren’t known for their cuisine, but their scones are off the charts. The scones at this bakery would make good doorstops.

“Tasteless scones so dry they made me feel like a dying man in the desert. And the tea was like dishwater.”

And those were the nice comments. The other bakeries had the same sort of snarky reviews. Not a single compliment.

Maybe Speechless Guy is onto something.

Sorry, I guess I should stop calling him that since I now know his name. Beckett. Sounds so provincial. Beckett has added me to his shed-jool. Tally-ho.

I feel Gypsy’s paws on my lap and see she’s up on her hind legs. She wants some lap time, so I pick her up. “I’m learning about scones. And you, kitty, have another guy to evaluate. You may need to help me make a choice at some point.”